


Not All Who Wander

by HopeStoryteller



Series: Gleefully Voicing This Eulogy [11]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: ......gee I wonder who this fic is about, Dubious Science, F/F, M/M, Mad Science, Magic and Science, Quirrel Needs a Hug (Hollow Knight)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-24 00:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeStoryteller/pseuds/HopeStoryteller
Summary: The Teacher’s Archives are, for the most part, deserted. Few of the staff resides within the Archives, after all, and those that do are currently out and about on one errand or another. This is not an accident.The only observers there are to this particular project are the Teacher herself, and various free-floating oomas and uomas—and neither of the latter will talk.One way or another, the Dreamers are doomed. Monomon the Teacher knows this. She can be satisfied with remaining in the Dream Realm for eternity, should the Hollow Knight be successful- but if they are not? The seals must break, then. And Monomon is not about to die for nothing.She'd prefer not to die atall, if that can be avoided.
Relationships: Herrah the Beast & Lurien the Watcher & Monomon the Teacher (Hollow Knight), Hornet/Lace (Hollow Knight), Lurien the Watcher/The Pale King (Hollow Knight), Monomon the Teacher & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), Quirrel/Tiso (Hollow Knight)
Series: Gleefully Voicing This Eulogy [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028826
Comments: 107
Kudos: 60





	1. All that is gold does not glitter,

The Teacher’s Archives are, for the most part, deserted. Few of the staff resides within the Archives, after all, and those that do are currently out and about on one errand or another. This is not an accident.

The only observers there are to this particular project are the Teacher herself, and various free-floating oomas and uomas—and neither of the latter will talk. Neither uomas nor oomas are _capable_ of intelligent speech, though they are quite obviously very intelligent in their own right. This was also not an accident, though the Teacher will not admit _that._ It would not do, after all, for the king to find out how smart her creations actually are. Or what her assistant will be doing as soon as she and the others are sealed away. _Or_ anything at all about her research concerning Delicate Flowers.

Something burbles familiarly behind her. The Teacher laughs and turns to greet her visitor. “Oh, _hello_ to you too! What are you doing up so late on this fine night?” 

Face-to-face with her—or perhaps more accurately, sheer faceless bubble to mask—Uumuu nudges her with a tentacle. She takes its tentacle in two of her own, and watches carefully as it taps out a message. Two long taps means an _M,_ three an _O,_ and it keeps going from there.

_M-O-N-O-M-O-N-S-L-E-E-P._

Translation: Monomon needs to sleep.

(All of her creations know the tapping code, so she is not exactly inexperienced in interpreting what it means. Uumuu is by _far_ the most talkative—not to mention the most invested in her continued well-being. Sleep right now, however, is the absolute last thing she needs.)

Monomon, as she happens to be named, sighs. “I do _not._ ”

_DO._

“I will have all the time in the world to sleep once the Seals are in place. Besides—I _must_ complete this before Quirrel returns.”

Uumuu peers curiously around her, its core glowing a brighter green as it does. It slips the tentacle onto her shoulder and taps out, _FLOWER?_

(At least, she can assume that it is asking that as a question, given the hesitant way it had tapped the letters out. The system is not foolproof. That being said, there _is_ a specific sequence of taps to signify a question, but Uumuu has never liked punctuation and far be it from Monomon’s place to enforce nonsensical grammar rules.)

“Yes, this _is_ a Delicate Flower.” Monomon holds it up for Uumuu to examine, then sets the flower carefully down again next to two others. “I _should_ only need three to accomplish this. That is, of course, assuming I _don’t_ destroy any of them in the process, but for now I will choose to be optimistic.”

Uumuu leans in over the table. _WHAT DO?_

“On the one tentacle, the less who know about this, the _better,_ ” Monomon says thoughtfully. “On the other, I _know_ you can be trusted, and there will be no risk at all of you telling the king.”

Uumuu burbles in confusion. It eventually taps out, _QUIRREL?_

“Is trustworthy, of _course,_ but I am not unfamiliar with the ways bugs can be affected by the king’s presence. I myself am immune to it—for reasons I am unsure of, but _suspect_ have to do with me seeing differently than the vast majority of others—and so are you. Quirrel, however, has eyes. Which _usually_ isn’t a bad thing, but in this case… I’m risking _enough_ by sending him away with my mask. The king, however, would not know to ask about any additional precautions I intend on taking until it is far too late for him to intervene. But he _knows_ I do not wish to die. Should he ask Quirrel anything relating to this, it is _crucial_ that he knows nothing. You… on the other tentacle…”

Monomon scratches the side of its bell affectionately. Uumuu leans into the touch with a happy burble.

“It _is_ proven that talking at another helps to work through difficult problems,” Monomon says to herself. “Let us start, then, with what I _have_ deemed safe enough to commit to acid. Delicate Flowers possess mysterious—and quite possibly limitless—power. Throughout our experimentation, there has been no consistent link between what determines when one’s power activates, and what it _does._ At least, that is what we have recorded, and that will hopefully be enough to keep the king off my back for a _little_ longer. In actuality…”

Monomon picks up the same flower again, and twirls it in her tentacle. “In actuality, there _is_ a link. Two of them, in fact. The easier link to determine was what its power does. Whatever the bearer’s greatest desire is in the moment it activates, _that_ is what the flower accomplishes. If one were to… say, place one of these at a friend’s grave, and it happened to activate, that friend might very well turn up the next day hale and hearty.”

Uumuu makes a sound that can only be a gasp.

“Yes, you understood correctly, they can bring back the dead. But that depends on the whims of the flower. It _could_ activate at your friend’s grave, but it could do so in the moment that you’re supremely irritated at the graveyard’s caretaker and just want her to go _away._ Or it could do so in the moment that you wish their grave was a little prettier. It needs to activate at _exactly_ the right time—and these flowers frequently do _not_ want to activate at the right time. Now, if the king was telling the truth about his Hollow Knight, this will be completely unnecessary, and Quirrel’s part in this will become _vastly_ more important.”

_THINK WRONG?_

She sighs. “I don’t know. And you of all beings should know _just_ how much I hate not knowing. I have made my preparations for if the Hollow Knight is successful, and I _should_ be able to continue much of my work even in the realm of dreams. Perhaps I will even be able to share my findings with the outside world, one day. But should the king’s plan fail—and it is _entirely possible_ that it will—I fear _death_ much more than an eternal dream. The Seals _must_ be broken, should his plan fail. And I believe I have found a way to break the seals without forfeiting my own life, should it come to that.”

Uumuu does more than a few taps then, a long series that amounts to: _MANY THOUGHTS FOR WHAT IF._

Monomon laughs, this time much less happily. “I _don’t know_ what the outcome will be, not for sure. I can only prepare in earnest for both. You see, Delicate Flowers activate through massive amounts of magic—but it cannot be magic directed _at them,_ for that will destroy them. In the graveyard example I gave earlier, that flower would have to be activated by heavy magic use nearby. Perhaps the mourner is a spellcaster, and is ambushed upon leaving their friend’s grave. Or perhaps… shall we say, the _breaking of a magical Seal_ could do the trick.”

It perks up. _MONOMON NOT DIE?_

“Well, no, I’ll still die, briefly,” Monomon admits. “I’ll just come back, so long as I think the right thing at the right time. I won’t say it’s _simple,_ because it really is _not,_ but my end, at least, will not be difficult so long as I stay focused.”

Uumuu’s tentacle hovers over the first flower, then moves over the second and third. _WHY THREE?_

“Because,” Monomon says matter-of-factly, “there will be _three_ Dreamers, and I intend to give both the Beast and the Watcher—yes, him too, questionable judgment does not change the fact that we are friends—the very same chance I am giving myself. As an important contributor to the science behind the Seals, I will soon be required to inspect each Dreamer’s proposed resting place to ensure there is no risk of the Seals being broken from their surroundings. It will be a simple matter to hide one of these in Herrah’s den and Lurien’s spire. It will be much _less_ simple to ensure they are thinking the right things at the exact moment the seals are broken, though I will do my best if I am the last to remain.”

She hums to herself and adds, “Of course, this is all moot if the Hollow Knight is successful. Yet… given what I suspect about the Infection’s origin, I am beginning to hope they are not.”

* * *

In the dead of night, Quirrel steals back into the Archives he had once called home. He has one last job to do, and so help him, he is _going_ to do it no matter what it takes. It is a simple matter once he is within—the king has guards stationed _outside_ the Archives, but once they were content the Archives were empty of all but jellyfish, they did not go back inside. Little did the guards realize, of course, that the jellyfish were _far_ more intelligent than perhaps the vast majority of bugs ever knew, and were more than happy to help a returning scholar cover his tracks.

He finds Monomon’s final resting place quickly. The tube is opened with care, so as not to make it creak. Acid-proof gloves are slipped on, and then he reaches within for her mask.

It only occurs to him on his way out, after he has given Uumuu one final parting pat, that there had been something odd in the tube with her: a traveling pack.

Actually, that may be the least odd thing about this situation. Not even a little thing like Dreaming forever could keep Monomon from her research, and to the best of his knowledge, she would have had replicas of everything on her recreated in the realm of dreams. At least she won’t be bored.

The thought does not make him as happy as it should. If anything, it makes the tears threaten to spill over once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i make no promises on anything approaching an update schedule but ive been sitting on two chapters of this for a month already and im also perhaps the teensiest bit bad at being patient. this is not my top priority, but i might as well post what i have already, right? right..
> 
> monomon is sure doing Something, huh. interesting... very interesting.......
> 
> a somewhat relevant detail: the tapping code uumuu is using is morse code. samuel morse obviously did not exist in this world, however, so it is instead being dubbed monomons code.


	2. Not all those who wander are lost;

“You  _ fool,” _ Lurien hisses. His wings quiver beneath his cloak in poorly concealed rage. “You wanted the Seals to be broken, and  _ now… _ now…”

“And now, Hallownest still has a  _ chance _ at survival,” Monomon replies. “It is out of our tentacles now.”

Lurien huffs indignantly, likely at the false implication that he possesses tentacles. He turns to their third. “And what of you, Herrah?”

Herrah stares out into the dawning sky of the dream realm. She does not look back. After a moment’s thought, she says, “I will not miss your conviction that the King of Hallownest could do no wrong. We are  _ still _ missing the full picture, but it is clear that he—”

“He did not  _ lie _ to us!”

“You keep telling yourself that. You keep telling yourself that, when the Infection runs rampant throughout all three of our homes despite our presence here and the Hollow Knight’s in the temple. Perhaps, if you weren’t so blinded by your one-sided adoration, you would have realized this by now.” Sitting on the edge of the platform, Herrah’s shoulders sag. “I should have known better than to trust he  _ could _ stop the Infection in the first place.”

“He  _ did,” _ Lurien argues, “for a  _ long _ time! If the fault lies with any bug, it is ours.”

Herrah snorts.  _ “We _ did exactly as he directed us to. It is not my fault, nor Monomon’s. It is not even yours, impossible as it may be for you to understand that. It is  _ his, _ and maybe if you realize that you can at least die with dignity.”

“Oh, I’ll  _ die _ alright. My Watcher Knights won’t be able to hold off that Vessel forever. You’ll be next. And you will have ample time to think about how you not only doomed us, but  _ every bug in these caves. _ Goodbye, Herrah. I won’t miss you.”

With that, he spreads his wings and flies to the exact opposite side of the platform. Herrah mutters something  _ extremely _ derogatory in the language of the Deep. 

Monomon is not exactly  _ fluent _ in Deepspeech, given that she has had no written materials to study, but she and Herrah have not exactly had much to do, either, and she started learning before Lurien did. She understands enough to get the gist. (She’s pretty sure Lurien does too.)

Letting out an amused snort, Monomon says, “I’ll be right back.”

She can practically feel Herrah roll every one of her eyes beneath her mask. However, she neither says nor does anything to stop her, and so Monomon floats over to Lurien.

“Go away,” he mutters.

Monomon takes a seat beside him, letting her own tentacles flop over the edge. “Do you really want me to do that?”

Lurien sighs. “Not particularly.”

“I didn’t think so. How close are they?”

“The Watcher Knights are continuing to perform their duty, even in death.” Lurien’s arms actually emerge from his cloak for once. He steeples his claws appraisingly. “But there are only so many of them. The Vessel comes back every time their shell is shattered. The Knights do not. There are only six left, now, and if they kill all of them…”

“There’s nothing left between the Vessel and you,” Monomon finishes.

“They’re back,” Lurien says suddenly. He winces. “Five now. Oh dear.”

“They can kill them that fast?”

“No, they dropped a chandelier on one. An impressive trick, but not something they can do again.” He pauses. “They’ve brought down one more. Four left.”

“You seem… unaffected, by this,” Monomon says warily.

“My knights have been dead for a long time. All the Vessel is fighting are their reanimated husks.”

Infection. Of course. What else would it be?

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. They knew what they were getting themselves into, as did I.” Lurien does not sound particularly convinced himself. He startles when one of Monomon’s tentacles lands in his lap with a wet  _ thwap. _ “What—”

“Stress ball. Or more accurately, stress tentacle. It is scientifically proven that squeezing something squishy and soft helps to reduce stress. So: stress tentacle.”

“I don’t think  _ wet _ is supposed to be in there,” Lurien jokes half-heartedly, but he obliges. “I… okay, this actually does help a little. Thank you.”

“Anytime. We’re in this together.” 

“Still... do you think he knew?”

“Knew what? Contrary to popular belief, I cannot in fact read minds.”

“I know  _ that. _ ” Lurien flinches. “Three. I… do you think he knew the Knight would fail?”

“No,” Monomon decides, “I don’t. I suppose, with his foresight, he must have seen the  _ possibility, _ but he wouldn’t have gone through with it if he was certain they would fail.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still. I would have liked to see him again, one last time.”

“Oh, hush up you lovebug. Is there anything else you would have liked to do? What  _ did _ you do before becoming the Watcher?”

“Two.” Lurien squeezes her tentacle absently. “I did many things. None of them quite fit, so I moved on until I found something I loved.”

“Which was the king,” Monomon says, and is promptly  _ thwapped _ with her own tentacle thrown back at her. “Fine, watching over the city  _ for _ the king. Better?”

“Much. Oh no, there’s—wait, no, there’s still two left.”

Monomon drops her tentacle back into his lap. He squeezes it with a wordless nod of thanks, then continues, “I wish I had known what Tirian was up to before… well, this. I was a fool. I let our friendship blind me, and accepted that the king’s investigators would be able to solve the disappearances in my stead. They never did, and by the time I figured it out…”

“At least the Vessel killed him?” Monomon offers.

“Too late for everyone he took. Too late for… anything, really. And soon it will be too late for me.” 

“...one left?”

“Zero,” Lurien says faintly.

She’s running out of time. The lift to the top of Lurien’s spire may be  _ long, _ but it is not  _ that _ long, and the Vessel won’t be wasting any time.

“There was  _ nothing _ else you enjoyed?” Monomon asks, a tad more desperately than she’d like. “Nowhere you wanted to go?”

Lurien hums absently. His wings flutter under his cloak. “I…  _ did _ always wonder what was beyond Hallownest. There are rumors, that—you know of that village on the surface? There are rumors that even  _ that _ is not the true surface. That somewhere, far above, there’s a brilliant light in the sky. A sun, brighter than the light that plagues our dreams and brighter still than even our king. I… would have liked to see it. Just once.”

“You… can fly, Lurien,” Monomon says warily. “Why didn’t you go before?”

“Why do you think?” The butterfly laughs humorlessly. “Too busy.  _ Always _ too busy. When I was young and foolish, I focused on getting ahead. If it wasn’t worth something to the world, I dismissed it as being worth nothing to me, either. Going to see the sun became just another dream I’d never pursue.”

“I thought, when I went to sleep, that the thing I would regret the most was never telling the king how I…” Lurien clears his throat awkwardly, and continues, “But I… I  _ know, _ that never would have worked. Never  _ could _ have worked. In a way, I don’t regret that.”

“But you do regret never seeing the sun,” Monomon presses.

“Yes.” He sounds quieter, and as Monomon looks at him, she realizes she’s looking  _ through _ him. “Yes, I do. My younger self was a fool for never setting aside the time to do so. I wish I  _ had _ seen it, just… just once.”

With those final words, the Watcher bursts into dream essence. Monomon’s tentacle falls to the floor with a muffled  _ plop. _

He’s gone. His seal is broken. The Vessel succeeded.

Monomon stares out to her right, into the empty space one lovesick butterfly had formerly occupied, as if staring will make him come back. She keeps staring until what can only be a  _ scream _ echoes through their dream.

She rises and turns quickly. When they had first entered the dream, before the seals were fully in place, there had been a bright, blazing orb of light above them. It had screamed then too, and the Dreamers had watched as an unseen force dragged it back out of sight, until the only light was that which they had brought with them.

As the Hollow Knight weakened, the dream had slowly,  _ oh _ so slowly, become brighter.

This change is  _ not _ gradual. The sky, once a dull grey, now beats with a faint, pulsing orange.

“The Infection,” Herrah says beside her.

Monomon starts. She hadn’t realized Herrah had come over, though in fairness their shared dream doesn’t afford much in the way of privacy. “Yes. It grows stronger. Even with the Hollow Knight’s weakening, our Seals still hold some of it back.”

“Yes,” Herrah agrees. She does not take her eyes off the sky. “I am becoming less and less certain that  _ it _ is the right word for the Infection.”

Uneasily, Monomon nods.

“One of my archivists thought so too,” Monomon admits. “He was close to  _ something _ before he disappeared, and his research notes with him. I…  _ suspect _ the king had a hand in his disappearance, and so did not pursue further research.”

Herrah snorts. “You?  _ Stopping when you’re told to?” _

Her priorities then had focused more on  _ surviving _ the Infection, not finding its source. She had been far more preoccupied with her Delicate Flower research and ensuring Quirrel would be able to flee the kingdom unmolested.

Though now, she can’t help but wonder: what  _ had _ Tara found?

“I had other priorities… that also were shut down by the king, in a  _ vastly _ more conspicuous fashion, but at least no one disappeared because of those. One bug is one bug too many.”

“So  _ that’s _ why you agreed to become a Dreamer. Too bad most of Hallownest didn’t share your views.”

“Too bad indeed,” Monomon echoes sadly.

* * *

The Vessel, as the Dreamers had rather unimaginatively dubbed them, gets up from beside where Lurien’s physical body had rested. They had been… rather  _ bitter, _ after how many times the Watcher’s knights had smashed them into oblivion. Only now are their actions truly catching up to them.

One thing is clear: Lurien had cared a great deal. He had almost certainly been the voice they had heard arguing that the seals had to remain. It’s delightfully and horribly ironic that his seal was the first to be broken.

They wish they could have known him, before all this. They consider, briefly, whether or not they can get a flower from their new grove in the Queen’s Gardens all the way up here. Eventually they recall their track record with spikes and think better of it for now.

As they turn to leave, something under his bed catches their eye. They kneel, stretching their arm under it, and grasp something that doesn’t feel entirely solid.

They pull it out. It’s a little white flower, though wilted it looks more grey. If they had eyebrows, they would shoot up, because they weren’t aware anyone besides them was giving out flowers currently.

The Grey Mourner must have been up here, then, before the Watcher Knights died and were reanimated to beat the shit out of one very tired little adventurer.

Ghost considers this for a time. At last, they crawl up onto the bed, and lay the flower where they remember Lurien’s mask had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> local gay butterfly is gay, possibly dead, and just got far more character development than the game ever gave him. Soul Master's name is Tirian. Monomon is... Monomon. Ghost is extremely tired.
> 
> this is the last chap I've got pre-written, so updates will absolutely be slowing down from here on out. <3


	3. The old that is strong does not wither,

Herrah has, recently, grown quiet. Being quiet is not exactly out of the ordinary for her, particularly not  _ here— _ but lately, she has grown even quieter, seated on the edge of their platform prison.

And in any other circumstance, Monomon would be quite happy to leave her alone. In this one… in this one, Monomon _ could _ leave her alone, but there is an important counterpoint. She could be thinking of  _ anything _ when her seal is broken, and that—Monomon cannot risk that.

She doesn’t want either of her fellow Dreamers to die.  _ She _ doesn’t want to die. She didn’t want Lurien or Herrah to die, either. Whatever has happened with Lurien… it is out of her tentacles now, though she would like to hope he has gotten to see the sun.

Herrah, however—could be difficult. Whatever the situation with the Infection, the ideal would be for her (and Monomon) to wake up somewhere outside Hallownest, far  _ enough _ outside that there will be no hope of returning before the Infection is dealt with—one way or another.

But what is there for Herrah outside Deepnest?

(What is there for Herrah  _ inside _ Deepnest, now?) 

“So,” Monomon says quietly. “Do you… have any idea where the vessel is right now? I saw them in Fog Canyon briefly, but I believe they made for the Queen’s Gardens after that. Is… isn’t there a way into Deepnest from there?”

“There is. Specifically, that is the route to my… where I am, that traverses the smallest amount of Deepnest,” Herrah agrees. “The Vessel has done their homework. And they do not appear to like Deepnest very much.”

“Ah. That is… that is to say…”

“Deepnest wasn’t for the faint of heart  _ before _ the Infection twisted it into what it is now,” Herrah says with a seemingly careless shrug. “I won’t be offended if you don’t like it either.”

“Oh, but I do. Deepnest is  _ fascinating,” _ Monomon insists. “I just… prefer to observe it from the outside, and allow those who are more familiar with navigating its dangers to examine it more closely.”

Herrah turns, slightly, to look at Monomon. Her mask conceals the expression she may be wearing, but that is no detriment as Herrah shortly says, “Was it the nosks or the corpse creepers?”

“There are  _ multiple _ nosks?”

“There  _ were.” _ Herrah stares back out into the lightening sky of the dream realm. “The last I was keeping track of perished to our vessel quite recently.”

_ “Our _ vessel?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

“No,” Monomon says mildly, “I don’t think you did. How… close are they?”

“Currently wandering through my village. What is…  _ left _ of my village, at least.”

The Queen of Beasts bows her head slightly, in a silent gesture of mourning. At last, she says, “Lurien may have been right after all. You will be the last of us.”

“I cannot wait,” Monomon mutters darkly. Upon getting a slightly confused look from Herrah, she elaborates, “That was meant to be sarcasm.”

“Ah. That… makes more sense.”

Monomon considers this, and holds up a tentacle for Herrah to see. She asks, “Stress tentacle?”

Herrah, who has already been through the scientifically-proven-to-help-with-stress song and dance, sighs and nods. “Why not?”

The tentacle plops in her lap, and only then does Herrah murmur, “I have to wonder, is this proven to reduce stress on  _ my _ end, or on  _ yours?” _

“Let me say… yes.” Monomon chuckles, and decides to change the subject. Quite suddenly, it hits her. “Your people weren’t from Hallownest originally, were they?”

“No, the weavers most certainly were  _ not,”  _ Herrah says wryly. “Did you forget to take notes?”

...ah. She did not, in fact, forget to take notes. She merely forgot about her notes until now. They are, most likely, buried somewhere deep within her pack. If she had thought ahead, she might have had them out, and asked for clarification on something relating to where the weavers did come from.

Despite all the time Monomon has had, she did  _ not _ think ahead.

“I dropped them,” Monomon blurts.

“You… what? Where?”

“Off the platform. They’re gone forever, lost forever, and I simply  _ must _ remake them before my only reference for this is also gone forever.”

“You  _ are _ aware that  _ you _ will be dead soon, too.”

_ No, I will  _ not _ be, _ Monomon wants to say,  _ and if you can just cooperate with me, then you will not be either! _

“Yes, yes, of course,” she says instead, a tad dismissively. “The weavers weren’t from Hallownest? Some of them left, when the Infection began. Where did they go?”

“Presumably, back home. I never visited, though it would have been nice to. Perhaps Hornet will go there someday.”

Aha,  _ there! _ There is  _ something _ she can  _ use, _ at  _ last. _

“And home is… where?”

“A place called Pharloom,” Herrah says. “You seem… oddly interested.”

“There is nothing  _ odd _ about my  _ interest. _ The vessel is close, yes? Tell me about it. About Pharloom.”

“Well, I… have never been to Pharloom myself, as I said. Yes, the vessel is close, they have survived the trap meant to end any lesser bug. But why are you asking about Pharloom  _ now—” _

“Herrah,” Monomon says firmly, “do you trust me? Please trust me.”

It’s  _ possible _ that out and telling Herrah what she is trying to do might not impair what she is trying to do, but—if it is, Monomon herself will have no hope of survival. If it is, better that Herrah and Lurien at least have a chance.

“...very well,” comes Herrah’s grudging agreement.

“Pharloom. You’ve never been there?”

“I have not,” Herrah confirms. “It was many generations ago, though before my… grandparents’ generation, I believe? There was much more contact between the weavers of Pharloom and the weavers of Hallownest. I… don’t know that I ever knew what changed, for sure, just that many assumed that what drove us away from our old home couldn’t possibly be as bad as the Infection.”

“Hm. Do you think those who left were right?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll never find out for sure. Perhaps Hornet will, someday. When… all this is over. If it is ever over.”

“One way or another, it will be soon,” Monomon says quietly. “Would you have liked to visit?”

“Are you kidding? Of  _ course _ I would have. Every weaver knows the old stories—and you _ better _ not have dropped  _ those _ notes, for I… don’t think we have time for that.” She pauses. “No, we certainly do not. They are here. The vessel.”

“Ah.” Monomon floats a little lower, a little closer to the platform, thinking and thinking for the perfect sequence of words. She is jolted out of her thoughts by Herrah perking up, slightly.

“Hornet is here too,” Herrah says. The gravity of that hits her, and she murmurs, sadder, “Hornet is here too.”

...Hornet. Herrah’s daughter. That’s  _ it. _ Maybe. Maybe, just maybe… Monomon says, quickly, for they are all running out of time, “Perhaps Hornet will get to visit Pharloom someday. Perhaps you’ll be with her, at least in spirit.”

“Perhaps,” Herrah echoes. “If only… if only I had known. Speculating is  _ your _ specialty, but… I cannot help but wonder, what  _ would _ Hornet find there? What would  _ I _ have…”

And, in an instant, she is gone. In an instant, Herrah the Beast, mother and queen and warrior, is gone and nothing remains beside dream essence drifting upward.

Monomon has no time to mourn. She is prepared, this time, when the world screams once more—when the dawn continues to break. There is still no sign of a sun of any kind, nor the source of the light—but it is  _ significantly _ brighter than it was before.

She rises, as high as she can safely hold herself above the platform, and calls, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

There is no answer. The sky, though brighter, has stopped brightening. If she had an opportunity at all, she has missed it.

Dejected, Monomon sinks back down to the platform beneath her. It had seemed so small, when there were three. Now there is only one, and it is  _ far _ too big for only one. It is too big for even two.

A part of her hopes the vessel will hurry to break her seal. The rest of her observes the lightened dream sky, and struggles to piece together the puzzle she  _ knows _ must exist. 

The Infection had to be sealed away in the Hollow Knight. Why? Why wouldn’t quarantining those infected have worked? Why were Dreamers even necessary? Was  _ the light that plagues our dreams _ quite literal?

Was  _ that _ why the king was perhaps the one individual with a more inconsistent sleep schedule than she?

She is missing something. Something big. And now, she no longer has all the time in the world to figure out what exactly it is.

Monomon can still try. She did not gain her reputation through  _ failure. _

* * *

Ghost is not surprised, really, to see Hornet waiting for them when they emerge from the dream realm, blinking the sleep out of their eyes—though they suppose it isn’t visible to anyone else that they do anything but pull themself to their feet.

Hornet does not look up as they stumble up. Her head is bowed as she sits on the edge of the raised dais, legs dangling off the edge and one crossed atop another. Her needle lays behind her, propped up slightly on what had been Herrah the Beast’s bed.

They are very much not surprised, though they think maybe they should be. She had not been waiting for them after Lurien, after all. 

So what is different about Herrah? Or… was, they suppose.

Ghost walks a little closer, and cocks their head in a wordless question. Hornet still does not look up.

She does, however, muse aloud, “So you’ve slain the Beast… and you head towards that fated goal. I’d not have obstructed this happening, though it caused me some pain to knowingly stand idle.”

They stare at her, and hope their silence is interpreted as a  _ why. _ They are not certain she understands the sign language of the mantises. Nor are they certain that  _ they _ know the right signs for what they want to ask.

Unfortunately, their silent stare seems to be misinterpreted. She stiffens, immediately defensive. “What? You might think me stern, but I’m not completely cold.”

The little vessel quickly shakes their head, because they  _ do _ like her. Against their better judgment, yes, but what is better judgment when you can come back from death itself? Besides, she seems a lot more friendly  _ now. _

They plop down beside Hornet, and look up at her. Hopefully this time it’s interpreted as the question it is.

She relaxes a little, and elaborates, “We do not choose our mothers, or the circumstance into which we are born. Despite all the ills of this world, I'm thankful for the life she granted me.”

What does she… oh.  _ Oh! _ Oh no. A mother… Ghost has to admit they are unfamiliar with the concept, though they have seen that other bugs have mothers and fathers, and sometimes multiple of one kind and none of the other. 

Herrah the Beast was… Hornet’s mother.

And Ghost just killed her.

_ Oh no. _

Ghost suddenly understands quite well why Hornet had been so determined to kill them, over and over, until they stopped coming back in Greenpath—and why she hadn’t given up until they beat her within an inch of her life. They understand why she did the same again, in Kingdom’s Edge, until they passed her test of resolve. They suppose they should be grateful that she didn’t challenge them a third time on their way to… apparently, murder her mother.

They reach out and pat her leg in a gesture that they have seen others do, and hope is reassuring. The way she flinches away at the touch is not a point in favor.

“It’s quite a debt I owed,” Hornet continues, quieter. “Only in allowing her to pass, and taking the burden of the future in her stead, can I begin to repay it.”

They nod, like they understand. (They do not understand. Hornet knows they do not understand.)

“Leave me now, Ghost,” she whispers. “Allow me a moment alone before this bedchamber becomes forever a shrine.”

Okay, fine. If that’s what she wants, they’ll do that. Quite happily. But the way her head dips even lower as they stand to leave makes them think maybe not.

They look past her, consider whether they can crystal dash faster than she can move, and make a decision. Before she can figure out what they are about to do and object, they reach in, and hug her. Hard.

She stiffens, and Ghost takes that as their cue to charge up a crystal dash and leave very fast before she starts stabbing them again. They like being not stabbed by her.

They are about a foot from the tunnel back down when Hornet calls, “Ghost!”

They stop in midair. Turn to face her, like a penitent child caught. Cock their head in a wordless question, and hope they don’t have to get out their nail already. If she tries to fight them again, they are going to  _ run _ thank you very much.

“I…” Hornet looks back down, before returning Ghost’s gaze once more. “Thank you.”

Ghost nods. Then, and only then, do they leave the Beast’s Den for good.

(From meeting the White Lady in her gardens and one extremely rude and hungry… creature, down in the depths of the Distant Village, as well as recalling at last their own past, they eventually piece together that Hornet is… their sister. Half-sister, specifically. They shared a father, and nothing else.)

(They hug her harder, the next time they see her, waiting for them at the top of the Abyss. This time, she hugs back.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just realized this means that if Herrah did survive, she's in Pharloom at the same time Hornet is for Silksong Things, and Hornet definitely did not see her.
> 
> then again Pharloom is pretty big. who knows?


	4. Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

Monomon has been asking the wrong question this  _ entire time. _ Obviously the Infection isn’t a mundane disease, she’s known that from the beginning. But she was so caught up in determining how to stop, or at least contain, the Infection—and then playing her part in doing so—that she never asked the crucial question.

The question this entire time was never  _ what _ caused the Infection, it was  _ who. _

And given that there are few beings with the power to create something so widespread and horrific as the Infection, the list of suspects has already become extremely narrow. There is the Pale King, of course—but while Monomon wouldn’t put it past him to  _ unintentionally  _ engineer his own doom, even he wouldn’t outright create the Infection. (She hopes.)

The White Lady is out as well, simply by virtue of not having a motivation. She had left  _ after _ the Vessel plan was well under way, and therefore after the Infection’s advent.

Monomon knows little about Unn, save that her eponymous Archives were built on land that used to be hers, and any attempts to learn more about her were either met with silence or one exceedingly enthusiastic self-proclaimed prophet. She knows even less about the bug known far and wide as the Nightmare King, only that he heralds a kingdom’s doom and that, consequently, the King of Hallownest bore no love for him. (Although she is reasonably certain they had been on at least halfway cordial terms until, again, the Vessel plan.)

Then there is the Radiance, the elusive goddess of the moths. Monomon knows almost nothing about her save her name, but… the title  _ radiance _ implies something to do with light, and what has been happening as the Infection grows stronger?

The dream prison Monomon has spent the past age or so in has been growing  _ lighter. _

That alone would be a stretch. After all, the Pale King also has a light-based aesthetic, as does the White Lady. But Tara had disappeared,  _ so _ close to a breakthrough about the Infection’s cause. His notes had gone with him.

Tara, a  _ moth, _ had disappeared. The authorities had searched for him and, upon finding nothing, concluded that he must have become Infected and thrown himself into a pool of acid to avoid being reanimated, while he still possessed his mental faculties. The authorities, however, did  _ not _ know Monomon’s researchers like she did.

Tara  _ would _ have left a note. The fact that he did not meant he feared he would run out of time, not an issue with the slow-acting Infection…  _ or _ he was taken, and wasn’t able to leave a note.

Taken by  _ whom, _ and  _ why? _ Perhaps the very authorities that searched for him? Or perhaps he had fled, knowing someone was going to take him if he did not. But that again begs the same two questions.

Unless… moths were not more susceptible to the Infection after all.

The longer she entertains the possibility, the more fearfully certain she becomes. It had, supposedly, been common knowledge that moths were more susceptible to the Infection. Quite a few had begun disappearing, after all—and where were they going if they were not Infected?

Monomon suspects she may know the answer to that, if moths truly are not more susceptible to the Infection—and she does  _ not _ like it.

Speculation, of course, is not evidence. Except that there had been several occasions where her single moth researcher should have been infected, before he had been taken off actively researching it for his own good.

They had all assumed he had just gotten immensely lucky, after he showed no signs of Infection during quarantine. And perhaps he had—

_ But perhaps he had not. _ If the goddess of the moths was behind the Infection, it would make  _ perfect sense _ for it to not target them.

Then—where did the moths go?

What would prompt a goddess, relatively unknown but largely thought to be benevolent, to do something like this?

Monomon stares out into the dawning sky of the dream realm. And, quite suddenly—it clicks. Those two things may be connected. She gasps, horrified, and says aloud, “Radiance, is it? Are you there?”

There is no answer. Monomon is not surprised. It would not do for the jailed to be able to talk with and subvert their jailers, not when the jailers are operating under what looks more and more to be a lie. And if it is a lie—

Did the Radiance start the Infection… to  _ protect _ the moths?

Does that mean that the king…

Oh no.  _ That’s _ why Tara fled. Monomon can only hope that he has escaped the kingdom entirely, if the disturbing theory she has come up with is at all accurate.

She can only hope… 

There is a distinct tugging sensation within her, like her very body wants to escape itself. On another plane of reality, the vessel is  _ here. _ They had been fighting what little remained of Uumuu, with Quirrel’s aid.

They were faster than Monomon thought.

She’s… out of time… 

* * *

When Ghost blinks back to awareness, the tank that formerly held Monomon is empty. There is a threadbare blanket draped over them, and given the pillbug seated against the wall, without his hat—of _course_ he’s without his hat, that was _Monomon’s mask—_ they can guess who gave them the blanket.

They pull it closer around themselves, and sit up. Quirrel looks at them, exhaustion evident in his every move. “It is… done, then.”

Ghost nods. They hesitate, then bring their hands up to sign,  _ “Sorry.” _

(That had been one of the first signs they had asked the Mantis Lords to teach them, once they finally figured out how to do the asking.)

“Do not be. It was… her choice, in the end. Not mine. If it were mine…” Quirrel stares down at the nail in his lap. His shoulders are racked with a silent sob. “This kingdom is already doomed. It has been for a long time, I think.”

Well, he isn’t  _ wrong, _ from what Ghost is aware of. But also he didn’t have to put it like  _ that. _ They don’t hesitate in getting up, just to plop down beside him and pat his arm reassuringly.

“Thank you,” the pillbug says, even quieter.

They give him a thumbs-up, then sign,  _ “You okay?” _

At that, Quirrel only laughs. They have heard him laugh before—when they crossed paths in the Fungal Wastes, and he entered a room to them bouncing wildly about and generally having the time of their life. When they splashed him, on impulse, in the hot spring in Deepnest.

Neither of those laughs was anything like this. This laugh is… nothing at all that a laugh should be. It is full of nothing but misery, and Ghost doesn’t know how they can help. Ghost doesn’t know if they  _ can _ help.

“Of course not,” Quirrel says, though Ghost already suspected and feared as much. “I have not been okay for… a long time, I think, though your concern is appreciated.”

(They stay with him a while, though they are tired, and eventually nod off entirely. When they wake up again, they are alone.)

(They do not see Quirrel again for a long time—and they foolishly do not realize that he intends for the next time they meet to be his last.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monomon: oh yeah, its all coming togeth- OH SHIT
> 
> am i posting these chapters in groups? WELL, APPARENTLY! got up to 5 currently written so I guess I'll go there (although the thought to leave you all hanging on Monomon's fate is extremely tempting I have to admit.)
> 
> i was planning to sit on this one a bit longer but counterpoint: im working all day and at least this way i can check ao3 on my break and not be checking it obsessively all day because haha we arent allowed to use phones woo! (which i understand, but if were slow... :/)


	5. From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

Urrrrgh.

Monomon feels like  _ shit. _ Specifically, hoity-toity aristocrat shit. There hadn’t really been a  _ reason _ to test shit from different bugs within Hallownest for various properties—barring of course shits and giggles, which is always a valid reason—but they sure had discovered that aristocratic shit held together less well, stunk worse, and was more dangerous to consume than any other shit in Hallownest. 

(Lurien had not appreciated those results. Naturally she brought them up at every opportunity when he was involved. She misses that.)

To reiterate: she feels like  _ shit _ . Specifically, aristocratic shit. It doesn’t help that she’s drying up,  _ never _ good, and a very compelling reason to get up from feeling like aristocratic shit on the ground. She reluctantly does so, squinting up at the light.

Wait.  _ Light. _ This isn’t the dream realm—barring the supremely bright and rude light in the sky, her current location is too dark. Besides, she never dries up in the dream realm, no matter how hard she tries. This  _ definitely _ isn’t Hallownest, based on the sheer fact that it’s too damn  _ bright. _

That means… heart thrumming, she pulls off her pack and feels within for a sealed tube. She opens it without a thought, angles it so the light shines it upon… a little white flower. A  _ wilted _ little white flower.

It worked. She has, of course, absolutely  _ no _ idea where she is, and  _ that _ is a problem. She has even less idea where she is relative to Hallownest, which means she’s far away from her Archives, and all her notes, and too far away to do  _ anything _ about the current catastrophe going down in the land she’d called home. Which is a slight problem.

But it worked. She is  _ alive. _

She still feels like hoity-toity aristocrat shit.

Her  _ first _ priority is finding somewhere significantly more humid. A lake would do nicely,  _ any _ body of water would do nicely—and that light in the sky must be the actual sun, mustn’t it? It is  _ very _ bright, and very warm, and she is nearly certain that if she possessed actual eyes it would be harmful if she looked at it for very long.

It is… not what she was expecting. But this is good! She can find Lurien, somewhere up here. If he survived too, which he must have. From there… Pharloom, and Herrah. So she floats across the barren plains, looking for some body of water or even some shade.

She does not find either of those things. Not until she crumples to the dirt, exhausted and  _ dry, _ and wakes up feeling significantly better—or at least wetter. Quite possibly more disoriented, though.

She is… in a cave, possibly. Though not a deep one, for she can still see daylight a few paces ahead, and one that evidently had a shallow pool of water within it.

She feels  _ much _ better. But that is precisely the problem. Delicate Flowers cannot be reused,  _ that _ she is sure of. But without aid, she should have died (again) in the sunlight wastes. Precisely why she prefers damp places like Fog Canyon.

But who would have known to get her hydrated?

“Oh,  _ good,” _ says a voice from somewhere off to her left. “You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

“...adequate,” she murmurs, and looks. Although perhaps  _ looking _ is the wrong word. The fact remains: looking or not, it is  _ immediately _ clear who this is. Though something seems… off, and she cannot tell what.

“That’s good to hear,” says the green-winged moth, immediately perking up. “You should be more careful in the future, okay? My name is Tara. You are…?”

_ There _ it is. If Monomon possessed eyes beneath her mask, they would  _ certainly _ go wide. As it is, she freezes in place, because… this  _ is _ certainly Tara. But he doesn’t… recognize her? That is impossible. That  _ should _ be impossible, unless…

Oh.  _ Oh. _ Oh no. He had to have left Hallownest, to avoid being found by authorities unfriendly or otherwise. But leaving Hallownest… those who leave, she had found long ago, find their memories of the land oh so quickly slipping away.

(There were no records of this prior to the king’s rule. Monomon has suspected for a very long time that this was not a coincidence.)

If someone was born in Hallownest, and lived all their life there, and  _ left… _ Quirrel had known the risks, and taken them on willingly. Monomon had attempted to provide what protection she could, though from what little she saw of him returning to Hallownest, it had not been enough.

And if  _ Tara _ left Hallownest… well, he clearly had  _ not _ in fact been murdered, which does wonders for one of the many things Monomon has to be guilty about. But he likely remembers… next to nothing, now.

“I am Monomon,” she says, looking carefully for a reaction. “I am… or perhaps was, a teacher.”

“Monomon, a teacher? It is a pleasure to…” Tara trails off. “That seems… I’m sorry, I… hm. I’ve… heard that name before, though I cannot recall where. Perhaps I have even… said it before. Do you… know me?”

“Yes. You don’t remember?”

“Not a thing!” Tara smiles unhappily. “But! I… or rather, the  _ me _ that used to be, suspected that I would begin forgetting things as soon as I left the kingdom of… I can never remember the name, my apologies. Hollowrest, wasn’t it? Hallowed Rest?”

“Hallownest,” Monomon offers.

Tara snaps his claws and dives for his bag, lying against the cave wall a safe distance from Monomon’s pool—really more of a puddle, if that. “That’s the name! The… Tara that could remember, kept a journal. He wrote down the things important to him, and kept writing them as long as he  _ could _ still remember, so while I can recall some of that from these… my journals, it feels as if they happened to a different moth named Tara.”

Monomon nods sadly. “That was a common effect observed, among those few we were able to interview that left Hallownest and later returned. It was not enough, it was  _ never _ enough to determine without a shadow of a doubt, but—I suspected. I wish now I had been wrong.” 

“Don’t be! I’ll find you in here eventually.” Tara starts flipping through the first pages of the notebook he has retrieved. “Let me see here… there is a good deal of information about a place called the  _ Archives, _ a good deal of anger directed at a king, and a good deal of… sentiments, I suppose, about something—someone? Called the Radiance.”

“You… you  _ knew,” _ Monomon realizes.  _ “That _ is why you left.”

Tara looks up from his journal. “Pardon?”

“You knew it was the Radiance behind the Infection, and  _ why _ she was behind it. You  _ knew, _ long before I ever figured it out, that moths were actually  _ immune _ and not more vulnerable.” Monomon reaches a tentacle out and paps him gently on the shoulder. “You are a  _ genius, _ Tara. I wish you had felt comfortable enough to bring that to me.” 

“Was. A genius,” Tara says uncomfortably, looking back down at the book. He flips through a few more pages, then makes a triumphant noise. “A _ ha! _ Here we are… let me see here… ‘I do not wish to forget Madam Monomon, though I… wish I could have told her the truth before she… died?’ You…  _ died?” _

“In a sense. The Dreamers’ seals were not meant to be survivable on our end,” and if Monomon sounds the tiniest bit smug, well, that is no one’s business but her own. “I got better.”

“And you are… a jellyfish.” Tara blinks. “That answers a few questions I had regarding my writings. I did  _ not _ write down any physical descriptions, which must have made sense at the time but is  _ endlessly _ infuriating now.”

“Clearly you knew on some level,” Monomon points out. “You wouldn’t have known to get me to water otherwise. I… this is why I do not leave my home, most of the time.”

“Ah. Yes, I suspect I was much the same, though for entirely different reasons. I have to wonder… I wrote of an Infection, yes, and of it not being safe to return home for a long time. If ever. Is it… safe, now?”

“Perhaps not yet,” Monomon says cautiously. “But it will be, and in the meantime—there  _ were _ two other Dreamers. And… it is quite possible that they survived through the same manner I did.”

“Hm. Which was…?”

Monomon only smiles. “You have no idea how relieving it is to be able to  _ tell _ someone freely about it, at  _ last _ .” 

“I suppose not.” Tara looks down at his journal. He sighs. “I… might have some idea.”

* * *

Hornet examines her map, frowning. She’d prefer to be nowhere  _ near _ Ancient Basin, actually. But—there is a not insignificant chance that Ghost is in the Abyss, and if they are… if they are, she’ll be there to pull them out again.

Holly had been worried, and she really can’t blame them at all for that. Not when they know, far better than she ever can, what is at the bottom of the Abyss. But she won’t be  _ going _ to the bottom of the Abyss. She’ll just be going up to that platform, and calling for them.

And if they don’t answer… well, she’ll cross that spike-filled gap when it comes to that.

Normally, Hornet would turn up her mask at the thought of taking the Stagways. But normally, her sibling’s life is not potentially at stake, and normally, she is not going to the Abyss. There is something to be said for having a rapid escape on standby, and so she detours past the ruins of the palace to call the old stag.

“Oh, hello,” the stag says cheerfully. “I don’t believe we’ve met before!”

“Not formally, no,” Hornet agrees. “But you have met my sibling. Ghost? They are smaller than me, with horns like this…” She motions with her claws in a curving motion, and the old stag nods.

“Ah, yes! The little one. I… have not seen them in some time, I am afraid. They are your sibling? I never caught their name…”

“That would be because they never gave it, for they are nonverbal. They may be in trouble—are you willing to remain here, for a time? In case we require a rapid escape?”

“Of course! I will be here as long as you need. May I… my name is Celeritas. You are…?”

“Hornet,” and with a curt nod, she dashes back off. The journey from the palace ruins to the Abyss’s entrance passes without incident, though Hornet cannot help but feel that  _ some _ of those tiktiks are  _ watching her. _ More than the normal amount, at least.

But then she is there, on the thin metal landing. She walks out to the edge, and looks down into that inky black nothingness, and calls, “Ghost? Are you there?”

There is no response. No  _ verbal _ response, though they have never  _ been _ verbal so she should not expect one. For a moment, for the smallest of moments, the darkness almost looks… inviting. There is  _ something _ down there, drawing her down, down, down…

She shakes her head, and takes a step back. That… the Void isn’t  _ supposed _ to do that. It hadn’t done that the last time she was here. But… she hadn’t been so close to it last time. Had she?

Hornet shivers, and takes another step back. She cups her claws around her mouth and calls, louder this time:  _ “GHOST!” _

There is no response. Yet once again,  _ something _ wants her to go down there.

Hornet will be doing  _ no _ such thing, thank you very much. But her feet carry her forward nonetheless, until she is standing on the very edge, looking down once again. Would… would it be such a bad thing to jump?

(It would. It  _ absolutely _ would. She cannot see the bottom, and suspects she would not be able to even if it was not clouded with that thick choking blackness. And the Abyss is… exhausting, on a very real level, just as much as it is calling to her.)

She should turn and run now. Ghost is not worth her own demise, particularly not if they aren’t even down there. But—there is  _ something _ down there.

Whatever that something is—it  _ will _ kill her. And yet she does not retreat this time. Instead, she lifts a foot, stepping out into the nothingness beyond the platform—

—and  _ something _ zooms up from below. All Hornet sees is a glimpse of red among the black before it barrels headlong into her, knocking her backwards onto the platform. Hornet lets out a cry of alarm and leaps to her feet, already drawing her needle—

Is.

Is that the Grimmchild?

It certainly  _ appears _ to be the Grimmchild who Ghost had with them, the Grimmchild that takes one look at Hornet so close to the edge of the Abyss and launches himself once again into her. This time, he pushes against her chest, struggling valiantly to… to get her away?

From the Abyss?

“Grimmchild,” she says aloud, though the words are—quieter than they should be. Some part of the sound is swallowed by the Void. “You were with Ghost, were you not? You were with my sibling.”

Grimmchild stops and stares up at her for a long moment. They nod, slowly, then return to pushing her away from the pit.

“Yes, I am  _ well _ aware of the Abyss’s dangers, thank you  _ very _ much,” Hornet mutters, more to herself than to one uncooperative child. “But—you were with Ghost. Are they… down there?”

The creature of fire stares at her for a long moment. Finally, just when Hornet is beginning to think he’ll never answer, he shakes his head with an audible “Nyeh!”

“Very well.” Hornet’s shoulders sag. “Come along, then. I will not be leaving you here.”

Grimmchild nods. He rushes up against Hornet’s chest again, but this time instead of headbutting her frantically, he curls up and starts purring.

(She takes a slight detour on the way up, to tell the stag that while his offer of assistance was much appreciated, there was no sign of Ghost and she would prefer walking to clear her head this time.)

(She is very much  _ not _ expecting to run into Bretta on her way up, nor Holly ten minutes later. She is, somehow, expecting even less for Grimmchild to take one look at Holly and start spitting flames at them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, unsurprisingly, Monomon is fine. and Tara's back! and not doing so well, actually- I might attempt to write out his journal at some point. his original incarnation from Elder Scrolls was more of a writer than a researcher- got deported from three separate countries because of trying to write books about the wrong things lmfao. so in retrospect I'm not surprised he wound up doing some writing here, too. and you know... a chronicle of him just progressively losing more and more memories would hurt a lot wouldn't it. :D
> 
> now, _Monomon_ might be fine, now, but I make no promises about the other Dreamers.
> 
> also, as you can tell from the timing of what's going on back in Hallownest- she did not come back _immediately._ keep that in mind -3-


End file.
